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“Why, he’s got blood!” said one.”I never thought he had any.”

“Come, Parson,” said a friendly miner, advancing from the circle, “we don’t want to hurt you, but you might as well understand that we’re the masters here.”

“And if ye are the masters, then be just. Give the criminal to me; I will myself take him to the nearest judge, the nearest jail, and deliver him up.”

“He’ll be more likely to deliver you up, I reckon, Parson.”

“Well, then, send a committee of your own men with me–“

“We’ve got other things to do besides taking long journeys over the ice to ‘commodate thieves, Parson. Leave the man to us.”

“And to torture? Men, men, ye would not treat a beast so!”

“A beast don’t steal our food and whisky,” sang out a miner.

“Stand back, stand back,” shouted several voices.”You’re too little to fight, Parson.”

“But not too little to die,” answered the minister, throwing up his arms towards the sky.

For an instant his words held the men in check; they looked at each other, then at him.

“Think of yourselves,” continued the minister.”Are ye without fault? If ye murder this man ye are worse than he is.”

But here the minister went astray in his appeal, and ran against the views of the border.

“Worse! Worse than a sneaking thief! Worse than a praying hypocrite who robs the very men that feed him! Look here, we won’t stand that! Sheer off, or take the consequences.” And a burning brand struck the parson’s coat, and fell on the head of the crouching figure at his side, setting fire to its hair. Instantly the parson extinguished the light flame, and drew the burly form closer within his arms, so that the two stood as one.”Not one, but both of us,” he cried.

A new voice spoke next, the voice of the oldest miner, the most hardened reprobate there.”Let go that rascal, Parson. He’s the fellow that lamed you last spring. He set the trap himself; I seen him a-doing it.”

Involuntarily, for a moment, Herman Peters drew back; the trap set at the chapel door, the deliberate, cruel intention, the painful injury, and its life-long result, brought the angry color to his pale face. The memory was full of the old bitterness.

But Saul, feeling himself deserted, dragged his miserable body forward, and clasped the parson’s knees. With desperate hands he clung, and he was not repulsed. Without a word the parson drew him closer, and again faced the crowd.

“Why, the man’s a downright fool!” said the old miner.”That Saul lamed him for life, and all for nothing, and still he stands by him. The man’s mad!”

“I am not mad,” answered the parson, and his voice rung out clear and sweet.”But I am a minister of the great God who has said to men, ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’ O men! O brothers! look back into your own lives. Have ye no crimes, no sins to be forgiven? Can ye expect mercy when ye give none? Let this poor creature go, and it shall be counted unto you for goodness. Ye, too, must sometime die; and when the hour comes, as it often comes in lives like yours with sudden horror, ye will have this good deed to remember. For charity,–which is mercy,–shall cover a multitude of sins.”

He ceased, and there was a momentary pause. Then a stern voice answered, “facts won’t alter, Parson. The man is a thief, and must be punished. Your talk may do for women-folks, not for us.”

“Women-folks!” repeated the ruffian-faced man who had made the women shudder at the chapel.”He’s a sly fox, this parson! He didn’t go out to meet Rosie Ray at the Grotter yesterday, oh, no!”

“Liar!” shouted a man, who had been standing in the shadow on the outskirts of [the] crowd, taking, so far, no part in the scene. He forced himself to the front; it was Steven Long, his face dark with passion.

“No liar at all, Steve,” answered the first.”I seen ’em there with my own eyes; they had things to eat and everything. Just ask the parson.”

“Yes, ask the parson,” echoed the others, and with the shifting humor of the border they stopped to laugh over the idea.”Ask the parson.”

Steven Long stepped forward and confronted the little minister. His strong hands were clenched, his blood was on fire with jealousy. The bull-dog followed his master, and smelled around the parson’s gaiters–the same poor old shoes, his only pair, now wet with melted snow. The parson glanced down apprehensively.